Then She Vanishes(80)

And the journalist in me needs this. If Heather really did hurt Flora all those years ago, I owe her nothing now. I’d happily write a story about her. The irony doesn’t escape me that I would forgive Heather for murdering Clive and Deirdre Wilson because they mean nothing to me, but I’d throw her to the wolves over Flora. ‘I’m just taking this off,’ I say, folding my coat over the back of the chair. ‘It’s hot in here.’

Margot looks pointedly at it. ‘I’d say so in that thing.’ Then she seems to remember her manners, and blusters, ‘Not that it isn’t a nice coat …’

I’m not offended. I know my clothes aren’t to everyone’s taste. That’s why I like them.

Margot hands me one of the takeaway cups, which I accept with thanks. She gives the other to Heather. ‘I’ve got you herbal tea,’ she says to her daughter, smiling indulgently.

I place the cup under my nose. I can tell by the delicious aroma that it’s coffee and I’m thankful she hasn’t brought me some weak herbal crap. I need caffeine and I’m suddenly desperate for a cigarette.

I offer Margot my seat but she waves me away. ‘Oh, no, that’s fine. I need to make a call so I’ll go into the day room. I’ll leave you two to catch up.’

I watch her through the glass panel in the door as she stops to chat to the policeman on duty, although I can’t hear what they’re saying.

Now is my chance. I sit down and pretend to notice Heather’s ring for the first time. She’s holding her cup with her left hand; the right rests in her lap. ‘Oh, wow, I remember your family ring,’ I say, lifting up her right hand and pretending to admire it. ‘You used to always wear that when we were kids. Flora had one, too, didn’t she?’

I sound so fake, but I’m hoping Heather won’t notice.

She stretches her fingers. ‘Yes. Matching ones. We never took them off.’

‘Was Flora wearing hers the day she disappeared?’

Heather takes her hand away and uses it to cup her tea. She gives me a long look, her green cat’s eyes narrowed, and I hold my breath. Does she know what I suspect?

Eventually she says, ‘I thought so. But I found it afterwards. In her room.’ She holds up her right hand and wriggles her little finger. ‘I wear it now.’

I think back to the morning when I last saw Flora. I can’t remember if she was actually wearing it or not, despite what Margot said to the police. Maybe Heather’s not the psychopath I thought she was. And Margot would have noticed the extra ring, wouldn’t she? If it meant something. Heather must be telling the truth.

I try another tack. ‘It’s all so sad,’ I begin, ‘what happened to Flora and now you, in this awful situation.’ I reach for her hand again. ‘You know, if you did ever want to tell your side of the story, in your own words …’

She snatches her hand away. ‘I thought you were here as my friend.’

‘I am. But I can’t lie to you, Heather. You’re all over the news already. Everybody speculating, putting words in your mouth. People need to understand that you’re human. Not some …’ I pause for dramatic effect, making sure she’s paying attention ‘… cold-blooded killer.’

She blinks, studying my face, but doesn’t say anything.

‘I want people to know the real you. The you we all know and love. The wife. The mother …’

‘The murderer,’ she adds bitterly. Is she thinking of her father? She doesn’t know I know about that. She never told me. Then she adds, ‘Everyone obviously thinks I killed the Wilsons.’

‘No … I don’t know. Look, we don’t need to dwell on that bit so much. I want people to see you as I see you. Gentle, kind …’

‘You haven’t seen me for nearly twenty years,’ she says levelly. ‘How do you know I’m kind?’

‘Well, you used to be. You’d do anything for anyone. And, according to your mum, you haven’t changed. She said you’re a brilliant mother to Ethan.’

She’s silent. ‘I don’t know …’

And in that moment I feel it. That familiar swell of excitement in my gut, the anticipation that she’s wavering, that I might be the only journalist in the UK with a story from Heather’s point of view. A surge of adrenalin shoots through me. ‘You could read it through before anything is published. Show them all that you’re just a normal wife and mother. Put doubt in their minds … But,’ I lean forward, as if telling her a secret, ‘we need to be quick, because once you’re charged with this, Heather, proceedings will be active and there will be restrictions on what can be printed.’

‘I think the police are coming to interview me tomorrow. The doctors said if I’m well enough today …’

‘Can you put them off? Say you’re still ill? Just until after Friday?’

She looks doubtful. ‘That’s two days away.’

‘If we printed this, you’d get sympathy from the public. It could make a difference, Heather, especially if it ended up going to trial.’

Something crosses her face. Panic, maybe. ‘I don’t know …’ she says again, reaching over to place her takeaway cup on the bedside unit.

Come on, Heather. Come on.